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small tower fronting the high court—a simple square, low building of somewhat sturdier construction than the rest of the castle’s upperworks. But as the harmach reached for the door, it opened from the inside, and a dark-eyed man with a pointed, black goatee and a crimson cape emerged, two armsmen at his shoulders.
    “Ah, good evening, Uncle,” the dark-eyed man said with a small nod. “I was just—” Then his eyes fell on Geran and widened for an instant. He smiled, slowly and deliberately, and let out a small snort. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look what the wind’s blown up against our doorstep. Cousin Geran, you are the last thing I expected to see when I opened this door!”
    “Sergen,” Geran replied. “You look well.” His stepcousin— if there was such a thing, he wondered—was in truth dressed quite well, with a red, gold-embroidered doublet, tall black boots of fine leather, and a gold-hilted rapier at his belt. In fact he looked more like a merchant prince of Sembia or the Vast than a son of northerly Hulburg. Geran remembered Sergen as a sullen, brooding young man, quick to find fault and take offense. But the man before him stood sharp-eyed and alert, brimming with self-confidence. “Ah, this is Hamil Aider-heart, my friend and business partner. Hamil, this is my cousin Sergen Hulmaster.”
    The halfling inclined his head. “I’m pleased to meet you,
    sir.
    “Likewise,” Sergen replied, but his eyes quickly returned to Geran’s. He stroked his pointed beard, and his brow furrowed. “I haven’t seen you in years, Geran. So where have you been keeping yourself?”
    “Tantras, mostly. Hamil and I are proprietors of the Red Sail Coster, dealing in the trade between Turmish and the Vast-—timber, silverwork, wool, linen.”
    “Ah, of course. I’ve heard of it. But… why did I think that you were staying in Myth Drannor?”
    Geran frowned. The question seemed innocuous, but he sensed a hidden stiletto in Sergen’s voice. “I lived there for four years, but as it happened I left about a year ago.”
    Sergen’s eyes widened. “Ah, that’s right! I remember hearing something about that—a duel of some kind, love spurned, a rival suitor maimed, some sordid tale ending in your exile from the elf kingdom. Tell me, Geran, is any of that ttue?”
    Geran stood in silence a long moment before he answered, “All of it.”
    Sardonic humor danced in Sergen’s dark eyes. “Indeed! I would not have believed it if you hadn’t said so.” The rakish noble smiled to himself and reached out to clap a comradely hand on Geran’s shoulder. “Well, I’m eager to hear your side of the story, Cousin. I am certain there were extenuating “circumstances. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a late dinner engagement this evening, and I must be going. Geran, you must promise me that you won’t leave town without a good long visit.” Sergen nodded to Harmach Grigor before he swept away across the bailey, his bodyguards in tow.
    Grigor watched him leave. “A capable man, your cousin Sergen,” he mused aloud. “Clever and ambitious. He has grand designs for Hulburg. If only half of what he means to attempt works out, we will be well on our way to becoming a great city again. But he has a cruel turn to his heart, I fear.”
    The dreams of a dragon, Hamil said silently. We know his type well, don’t we? Tantras, Calaunt, and Procampur are full of such men.
    But Hulburg isn’t, Geran thought. Or at least, it never used to be.
    The harmach shook himself and motioned to the door. “No reason to stand here in the cold,” the old man said. “Come, Geran, you must see your young cousins Natali and Kirr. They’ve heard quite a few stories about the Hulmaster who’s off seeing the wide world. You are something of a marvel to them, even if you don’t know it.”
    The swordmage pulled his gaze away from his cousin’s
    back. He had a feeling that he would see more of Sergen soon enough, whether he wanted to or not.